Poetry- Coyote

Coyote

This table likes to wobble, and so

does the chair.  Hard to keep a sense

of focus

or balance.  I stop thinking about typing

and start paying attention

to gravity,

what an axis is, to the flute crying

of a coyote

slivering over these moonlight slopes.  I keep trying to fix it,

looking underneath, wiggling things— I want a good footing, but it’s a no go,

and the coyote, I didn’t know,

they make this sound,

a hollowing out that requires a moon.  It’s some sort

of deformed magic, or perhaps it is the floor,

or me…

for it does not shake

until I sit in it.  I decide to write after all— the birth

of dance rambles

up from the floor.  I ride it

as the heaving leads to words.